Eastwood's Westerns: 'Wales' and 'Unforgiven'

The other night I watched The Outlaw Josey Wales and Unforgiven, two of Clint Eastwood’s finest Westerns. Starring in and directing both, Eastwood made these films sixteen years apart, and while they share some similiarites, they are quite different in their tone and visual style – the former, a more classic linear story, the latter, more of a fable on the anguish of violence.

Wales (1976) has Eastwood as the title character become a guerilla fighter for the Rebels after his house is burned and his wife and son are killed in a raid by Union troops. At the conclusion of the war, most of Wales’ comrades pledge allegiance to the North, but are murdered as part of a Union trick. Wales then shoots down several of the troops and must flee from them and the bounty hunters that are soon on his trail.


At the beginning of Unforgiven (1992), Eastwood portraying William Munny, is a widower who is raising hogs with his young son and daughter on a small farm. He learns that a few cowboys cut up a woman and that there is a reward out for the capture of these men. Although he has sworn off the murderous ways of his past (“I ain’t like that no more,” he remarks more than once in this film), he sets out on this challenge, as he claims he needs the money.

Thus both films are modeled on the classic Western theme of finding evil and challenging its force. But for Eastwood, there is the equally important matter of fighting inner demons as well as encountering loneliness. “I ain’t no different than anyone else,” Munny tells his partner Ned Logan (Morgan Freeman), trying to convince himself of this statement, yet knowing full well that he is different.

The inner demons have less to do with Wales, who along the way picks up an aging Indian (Chief Dan George in a wonderful dry comic performance), a young Indian woman (Geraldine Kearns) as well as an older white woman and her granddaughter (Paula Trueman and Sondra Locke, respectively) as his traveling companions. At once, these people represent a family that Wales now needs; later they will become invaluable in his efforts to stay alive. It’s a nice transformation of his lonely character, who if only for a brief time, understands the value of his fellow man along the way. He leaves his new family unit at the end after a rousing shootout as he continues to pursue the Union soldier who left a deep scar on his face (compare this with the prostitute who is cut in the opening scene of Unforgiven). He departs without saying a word- clearly his actions to make things right are more important than his new friends.

The final scene has Wales encountering a former associate Fletcher (John Vernon) who has been leading the effort to murder him. They come to an understanding, as Wales and Fletcher pretend that Wales is dead. The war is over and so are his reasons for murder. “I guess we all died a little in that damn war,” he remarks. He rides off into the sunset, having accomplished his goals and along the way, learning a little about humanity. But are we to believe that Wales won’t continue his killing spree if it becomes necessary? That was the world of Eastwood’s characters in these Westerns and it is a theme that will be explored in greater detail in Unforgiven.

If Wales is a classic Western of good triumphing over bad, then Unforgiven turns that concept inside out as we question the very concept of goodness and evil. Sheriff Little Bill (Gene Hackman in an Oscar-winning role) represents good in name only, as his way must be obeyed in the town of Big Whiskey. He beats and kicks those who refuse to yield their firearms and cruelly whips those who will not truthfully answer his questions.

Munny becomes evil once again as events lead him down a slippery slope. We see it in subtle ways, as he tries to kill one of the bunch that terrorized the prostitutes earlier. After Logan gets off a few shots, he suddenly stops, as he can’t finish the job. Munny seizes the rifle and does what he can with his less than accurate shooting. After hearing the man cry out for water after he is shot, Munny yells at the outlaw’s partners, “Give him a drink of water, for christ’s sake. We’re not going to shoot.” He doesn’t shoot, as promised, as he lets the outlaw bleed to death. He has killed again, but his facial expressions and body language let us know his agony.

This scene on a rocky ledge, as we cut between Munny, Logan and their new partner The Schofield Kid (Jaimz Woolvet) and the outlaw crawling on the cliffs below is superby edited by Joel Cox. His work throughout the film is first-rate, as there is a natural flow of the major events in the story, from the encounters of Munny, Logan and the Kid to the intruiging chapter of the arrival of English Bob (wittily portrayed by Richard Harris) in Big Whiskey to the final massacre in the bar. The film has a beautiful pace, which is due in part to Cox’s work – as well as Eastwood’s direction (a trademark of the filmmaker). Cox who has been the editor on Eastwood’s films for over the past two decades won an Oscar for his work on this film.


Eastwood had been directing since the early 1970s and by now had reached a new level of technical excellence; Unforgiven remains one of his best films on several levels. For instance, the contribution of cinematographer Jack N. Green must be singled out. This is a dark Western with several scenes, such as the final sequence, taking place at night in pouring rain. Green’s photography – at times somber and at times alluring - is perfect for the tone of this film and has a subtlety and grace to it that add to the emotional mood of the story. He offers a rich pallete of colors in the outdoor scenes, but in a slightly muted way. Contrast this look (especially in the scene with Munny, Logan and the Kid riding across the open plains just before sunset) with the deeply saturated, high contrast look that cinematographer Bruce Surtees provided for Wales. That look is pretty at times and it could be argued that it is more in keeping with the tone of that film, which is much less brooding than Unforgiven, but ultimately the photography of Wales lacks the complexity of the visuals crafted by Green in Unforgiven. It would have been nice if the Academy would have awarded Green for his efforts, but as usual, they took the safe route and handed out the Oscar for Best Cinematography that year to the “prettier” visuals of A River Runs Through It. (Green incidentally was the winner of the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Society of Cinematographers in 2009.)

Unforgiven also has one of the finest scripts ever written for a Western. Crafted by David Webb Peoples, the screenplay is beautifully structured, offering some tender sequences you might not expect, given the raw intensity of much of the story. One of the most poignant scenes is that between the young prostitute whose face was cut (Anna Levine) and Munny during his physical recovery after a beating at the hands of Little Bill. “You ain’t ugly like me, “ Munny tells the woman. “It’s just that we both got scars. But you’re a beautiful woman.” Clearly Munny is taking about both physical and mental scars at this moment.

Then in a hearbreaking exchange, Munny tells her that he doesn’t want to hop into bed with her on account of his wife. Clearly touched by this expression of emotion, she asks him, “Is she back in Kansas?” “Yes,” Munny responds, “she’s looking over my young ones.” This is a very touching response as the woman clearly does not know that Munny’s wife passed on several years earlier.

Peoples’s script examines how ugly murder really is; though it may be necessary for some, it is never an easy choice. Look at the transformation of The Schofield Kid. During much of the film, he falsely boasts to Munny and Logan that he had killed five men; his hyped bravura a supposed mark of manhood. But after he does commit his first murder in this story, he wonders about his actions. “It don’t seem right, how he can never breathe again, ever… all on account of pulling a trigger.” Then comes the film’s most famous line. “It’s a hell of a thing killing a man,” says Munny. “You take away all he’s got and all he’s ever gonna have.” This is clearly not a message of shoot ‘em up and get rid of the bad guys; this is about the finality of death and how it changes everyone. (Today it seems incomprehensible that this screenplay did not win the Oscar; rather the Academy opted for the more sensational aspects of The Crying Game, a fine screenplay but without the richness of this script. It is a reminder of the timing and popularity of certain films as to why they win awards.)

Eastwood films the conversation between Munny and The Kid simply and effectively with the Kid slumped next to a tree taking swigs from a bottle of whiskey while Munny stands nearby in a world weary pose. As Munny utters the line about “ killing a man”, Eastwood cuts to a closeup of Munny from below, his face outlined against a dark, cloud filled sky. Clearly, Eastwood by this time had created a mythic personality on screen; this moment is one of his most clearly defined.

Eastwood’s direction was his finest to date and ranks with his efforts in Million Dollar Baby (2004) and Letters from Iwo Jima (2006) as his best. He had shown effective talent as a director even in his first film behind the camera (Play Misty for Me, 1971); by now he had become a fine technician with an excellent sense of pace. But in Unforgiven he displayed more assurance in his direction, as there is much more cutting within scenes, as he gives us a variety of points of view, matching the complexities of the story. His eye for striking visuals is not only reserved for outdoor scenes here; look at the beautiful composition of the Kid and Logan looking over Munny as he is recovering from his injuries midway through the film. The wide open spaces of Wales have largely been replaced with a more claustrophobic, tumultous perspective. (As everyone knows, the Academy did honor Eastwood as Best Director and the film as Best Picture.)

Wales remains a beautiful classic Western about the search for justice. Unforgiven on the other hand examines the very notion of justice and is a menacing look at the evils of violence and its effects on our souls. We may escape violence briefly, but it will return in some form at some point in our lives; this is one of the strongest messages of the film. As carried out by Eastwood, Peoples, Green, Cox and other gifted technicians who worked on this project, Unforgiven remains a stunning achievement.


-Tom Hyland

The Visual Power of "Bound For Glory"

Hal Ashby’s Bound for Glory (1976) could have been alternatively titled Bound for Greatness, given the excellence of its storytelling and the power of its images in its first hour and a half. Despite losing strength in the latter stages of the film when it focuses more on standard biopic situations, the film has a raw beauty that sets it apart from most other historical biographies of that decade or since.

Clearly inspired by John Ford’s stellar adaptation of The Grapes of Wrath (1940), Ashby borrows certain images (the flimsy trucks overloaded with chairs and blankets, the unsightly labor camps) to tell the story of famed folk singer Woody Guthrie as he migrates from Texas to California in Depression era 1936. Certainly the subject matter almost demands these comparisons, yet Ashby and his brilliant cinematographer Haskell Wexler combine to present a singular, powerful, stunning visual approach.

As might be expected, earth tones dominate the color pallete of this film; browns, dull yellows and muddled reds are a constant reminder of the harshness of Texas and the California landscapes. Most of the colors are desaturated and the haze of unbearably hot afternoons is highlighted. The sky in the early scenes in Texas is never blue, but rather a washed out whitish yellow. At one point, Woody makes his way home through a massive dust storm in his home town of Pampa and the screen is dominated by flashes of yellow, pale blue and grays, giving the town an eerie, desolate look (the dust storm is one of the film's most powerful images and is the work of special visual effects genius Albert Whitlock). When Woody next enters the barber shop and has to wipe dust off one of the chairs, it’s a nice touch that tells us that the barber (and many of the townspeople) have given up.

It is in the following scenes as Woody leaves his family to head to California that Ashby's and Wexler’s visuals truly take over, elevating this film to another level. Soon after he catches a ride out of town, we see him trying to hitchhike on the open highway. One beautiful image occurs after a chair falls off a passing truck. We then immediately see Woody in an extreme long shot sitting in that chair on the side of the road, playing his harmonica. There are no cars, no other humans, not even any birds in the shot. It’s a nice visual that emphasizes the loneliness of his journey.



Woody then meets up with a few vagrants who are waiting in the weeds, trying to catch a freight train. During his journey, he meets up with one particular vagrant named Slim and we follow their journey riding the rails. There is one spectacular shot in which the camera is mounted on top of the train as we see Woody and Slim sitting on top of a boxcar as the scenery passes by in the background. It’s a single shot that last for just over two and a half minutes and it’s dazzling not only for its unusual view of these two atop the train, but also for its simplicity. The shot lasts long enough for the train to pass through a tunnel, so that little by little the screen becomes black. Our eyes follows the light in the frame as it becomes smaller and smaller until it disappears and there is only black. But then immediately, the screen is light again as the train reemerges from the tunnel. I don’t know if Wexler planned for this visual trick of watching the light shape become smaller and smaller (as the train is gently rounding a curve, the light moves from the front left of the screen to the rear right), but I’m taken in by this image every time I watch this particular scene.

Bound for Glory is also the film credited with the first use of Steadicam, invented by Garrett Brown. This particular shot has the cameraman tracking Woody as he walks throught the migrant camp one morning as the laborers wait to hear if they will be chosen for work that day. Lasting just over two minutes, the shot has a dreamy, mysterious quality to it and while many directors have used Stedicam in the thirty-plus years since this film, it’s difficult to imagine a more beautifully filmed scene.

Throughout the film, there are images worthy of a great landscape painter. There’s one of Woody sleeping by the side of a road as a car winds by and later there’s a shot of Woody and his musician/labor organizer friend Ozark Bule performing a song amidst fields where laborers are harvesting and their children play. We see the children in the foreground of the shot and their parents hard at work in the distant foreground, as the formal geometry of the rows of crops isolates the workers.

The last 40 minutes of the film deals with the turmoil Woody faces once he agrees to appear in various radio programs. As he is becoming more outspoken in his feelings of sympathy for the migrants and urges them to form unions, his reputation as an activist spreads, worrying the sponsors of his program. He must give the station manager a list of approved songs and this situation drives much of the last part of the film. It’s definitely an important conflict in Woody’s life, but it pales in importance to the struggles of Woody and others getting to California and then finding work once they arrive.

The scenes set at the radio station clearly do not have the visual power of the ones set on the road to California. But there is still one powerful sequence left, as Woody, fed up with his predicament in the studio, decides to get back on the rails so he can touch the people. As he boards a freight train, he stands up in an empty boxcar, silhouetted against the setting sun behind him. It’s clearly a mythic image, but one that is appropriate at this moment.

The scene that follows is quite haunting, as he sings his protest song, “Pastures of Plenty” to a group of migrants who are standing in the rain, if only to be close to this man, whom many now consider something of a savior. As Ashby pans the camera off of Woody we see the quiet, solemn faces of the workers, whose hats and bonnets are misshapen by the rain. One woman holds a washbasin upside down over her head to fend off the precipitation. It’s a brief, but memorable visual.

What we are left with then is a film that captures greatness for much of its running time. If Bound for Glory is not quite the masterpiece it might have been, it is stirring evidence of the compelling nature of the power of images. Certainly Haskell Wexler had much to do with that; he not only won an Oscar for his cinematography here, but was also given the first screen credit of the film. Ashby and he realized what the visuals could bring to this story and succeeded magnificently in making this film a remarkable experience.

"A Game of Pool"

When we speak of “cinema” we usually refer to a theatrical film, but today I will be dealing with a television show that in my mind has the excellence of some of the finest feature films I’ve ever seen.

The Twilight Zone remains one of the best-loved television series of all time and much of that has to do with its subject matter. The “middle ground between light and shadow” was home to many intriguing ideas, dealing with subjects ranging from nostalgia (“Walking Distance”, “Kick the Can”, “A Stop at Willoughby”) to paranoia (“And the Sky Was Opened”, “The Hitchhiker”, “The Monsters are Due on Maple Street”) to simple everyday mysteries (“Long Live Walter Jameson”, “Nick of Time”). These were masterfully written and performed espisodes that jolted the viewer’s imagination. Other episodes were simpler treatments, often moving towards a peculiarly unique punch line (“To Serve Man”, “The Rip Van Winkle Caper”). Some people loved the show for its take on humanity in moments of crisis, while others merely appreciated the slightly bizarre science fiction moments. There was clearly something for almost everyone.

I’d like to discuss an episode that is among the best of the series, entitled “A Game of Pool.” Shown in 1961 in the third season, the storyline was delightfully straightforward – a lonely, intense everyday pool player named Jesse Cardiff (Jack Klugman) gets his chance to do battle with the legendary champ Fats Brown (Jonathan Winters). Cardiff practices all hours of the day to become the best and the only way he will be known as that is to beat Fats, whose name he is tired of hearing. Brown is deceased, but upon learning of Jesse’s request, comes back to the pool hall in Chicago for this match, which has a stakes of life and death – if Cardiff wins, he can live; if not, he dies. (The device of coming back from beyond in this episode is a lovely Twilight Zone moment.)

There are so many excellent things about this episode from the elegantly uncomplicated art direction of George W. Davis and Phil Barber to the precise editing of Jason H. Bernie to the high-key cinematography of Jack Swain. He wisely decided not to highlight shadows, as that might have been an overdone touch given the human drama of the story (this is after all, not film noir).

Buzz Kulik’s direction is confident and to the point, with beautiful closeups of the two actors’s faces to highlight the tension. The acting by both performers is admirable; Jonathan Winters fits the role of Fats Brown like a glove and offers a low-key, at times sardonic performance. Klugman on the other hand is superb – I believe he was one of the greatest actors ever to appear on television. Everyone recalls his great comic work on The Odd Couple, but watch his work in this episode as well as two others from The Twilight Zone (“A Passage for Trumpet” and “In Praise of Pip”). As Jesse Cardiff, he is at times forceful, then at times insecure, but always focused on the dream he carries. Klugman does wonderful things with the tone and volume of his voice; he knew how to deliver a line simply and with great passion without ever being a ham. This performance is heartbreaking, as Klugman makes us feel the weight of everyone who ever wanted just a little touch of respect from their peers.

It is the screenplay by George Clayton Johnson that is the greatest single contribution of this episode in my mind. Johnson, who also wrote the series’ “Kick The Can” episode, delivers a story here that is a classic tale of the little guy versus the champ. Yet, this is not one of those simple plots where we root for the underdog. Rather, here we are cast in the middle of these two lives, as we realize this is all about the costs of success. Cardiff may desperately want to be champion so he can exorcize the name of Fats Brown, but he will soon understand that becoming a champion carries with it a responsibility that ultimately develops into a burden.

The exchanges between Cardiff and Brown are beautifully written, as plain spoken dialogue that suits these two characters. There are no glorious, overwrought speeeches here - just tough, direct lines spoken by the two characters that remind us of their differences. Yet at the same time, the screenplay takes on notes of wonder and imagination, as Cardiff imagines what it would be like to be champ.

One of my favorite lines is delivered by Fats when he is egging on Jesse for the match. Sensing Cardiff’s sudden doubt about beating him, Brown tells Cardiff, “You’ll never make the grade at anything by playing it safe.”

After a great shot by Cardiff, he asks Brown, “How about that, fat boy?” Brown replies, “Not bad.” To which Cardiff replies, You know, you’re like all the others.” He confidence is at an all-time high here, but that will soon be questioned.

Toward the end, Brown tells Cardiff, “there’s more to life than this pool hall.” It’s a brilliant line, as it sums up what Cardiff, in all of his intensity and dedication to the game, misses out on in his existence. Become the champ, Johnson is saying, and you may gain some respect from a few, but in the big picture, you lose out on everyday friendship.

Ultimately, Johnson in his screenplay asks several significant questions. Do we have what it takes to dethrone a champion? Do we want to work hard enough to achieve that goal? And finally, what do we gain by becoming the best? These questions raise “A Game of Pool” from a simple human duel to an examination of how we see ourselves among our fellow man. This is an exceptional screenplay and a timeless episode.



A final note: Yes, I goofed on my prediction for Best Editing at this year's Academy Awards. In my last post, I emphatically predicted that "The Dark Knight" would win the award, but of course, it went to "Slumdog Millionaire." Who knew?

Anyway, I'll be back again next year (I hope) with another Oscar prediction. I'm just glad I didn't predict Kate Winslet winning- I probably would have jinxed her. Thank goodness she finally got her long overdue Oscar!

Oscar Trends - A Predictable Category

Quick- what do these movies have in common?

Body and Soul (1947); Champion (1949); Rocky (1976) and Raging Bull (1980). If you answered that they’re all films with boxing as the main subject, you’re right, of course. But the other answer is that they’ve all won Oscars for Best Editing.

Apparently, the Academy members believe that great editing can be summed up in boxing films with their quick cuts back and forth between the antagonists. I’m not critical of the editing in these films; indeed the editing of Body and Soul and Raging Bull is magnificent. Also, it should be pointed out that not every boxing film wins Best Editing, as was the case with Million Dollar Baby (2004), which lost this award in favor of The Aviator, not a surprise, given the dramatic flight sequences (as well as the spectacular crashes) or Cinderella Man (2005) which was passed over in this award in favor of Crash, a bit of a surprise. So it’s not all the time, but it’s clear that if you make a successful boxing movie, you’ll snag a Best Editing nomination and probably win.

It also helps when you have a great car chase as in Bullitt (1968) or The French Connection (1971), which both – you guessed it - won the Best Editing Oscar. Again, a superb job of editing on these films and richly deserved wins, but it does point out how the members love the fast action of a boxing ring or a car chase when it comes to this award.

So I can say with pretty good certainty, as I write this one week before this year’s awards are handed out, that The Dark Knight will win the statue this year for Best Editing. It’s really the only film nominated in this category that has big action scenes, so I’d be surprised if it lost. It will also win as the voters will try and make up for the film not being nominated as Best Picture. This snub is becoming a too predictable trend, as the Oscars – despite their so-called changes – get all serious at awards time and go for the noble, sincere films, while the beautifully crafted entertainment pictures get snubbed. This is similar to the Bourne films of the past few years (especially the first-rate The Bourne Supremacy of 2006). Last year, the Academy handed out the Best Editing award to The Bourne Ultimatum (along with awards for Best Sound Mixing and Best Sound Editing) not only for its brillliantly edited action scenes, but in my mind, also for the omissions over the past years for the technical work in the previous two Bourne films.

While you’re on your own for the other Oscars, you can rest assured that the Best Editing will go to The Dark Knight. (I’m also thinking that it will win a few others such as Best Sound Mixing and Best Sound Editing; I’d love to see Wally Pfister’s terrific cinematography be honored as well but I’m not that confident in this category).

A Touch of Capra

I finally got around to seeing Ghost Town the other day. It was on the plane ride home from Munich and I’m sure if you’ve flown lately, you know how nice it is to see a good film, given all the garbage that gets shown on the airlines. That aside, I liked this film very much for several reasons, for its performances, which most reviewers have mentioned, but also for its message, which has not been the subject of too many critical analyses of this film.

The focal point of this film is the performance of Ricky Gervais, the great British comic actor who starred in the original version of the TV series The Office. Gervais plays Dr. Bertram Pincus, a New York City dentist who just doesn’t care much for people and even less for their problems. He’s got the perfect job since he can shove all sorts of things in his patients’ mouths, meaning he doesn’t have to listen to their concerns.

One day he undergoes a routine operation in which he is dead for seven minutes before coming back to life. Because of this, he can see ghosts, who upon their discovery that the doctor can actually see and hear them, pester the poor guy with their problems. Just what he needs!

Gervais is brilliant in this film, especially in the hospital scenes when he answers one of those annoying questionnares about everything from when he last ate solid food to how well his laxatives worked. How we’d all love to say the things he does in this scene! He’s also great in his scenes with Gwen (Tea Leoni, in a quirky, captivating performance) with whom he falls in love. Gwen, you see, was married to Frank Herlihy (Greg Kinnear), a businessman who cheated on her. Now Frank (who recently died and is now a ghost) wants the doctor to sway Gwen away from marrying a self-righteous jerk who is involved in organizing medical help for Third World countries (that doesn’t make him a jerk, of course, it’s the way the character is written, as some sort of modern day savior). Kinnear, who is making a nice living playing everyday characters with some annoying tics, won’t give up until Dr. Pincus does the job he asks him to carry out. The more the doctor resists, the more Frank talks to the other ghosts he knows and convinces them to ask the doctor to help them as well.

While the film plays cute at times, the story is effective enough and the performances are so good that we accept some of the limitations of the project. Yet there is one brilliant scene in the film that few have discussed. The message here is that when you die, you don’t just go to heaven (or the other place) right away. No, it turns out that we all have some unfinished business we need to have taken care of. As we’re dead, we can’t do it, so we have to tell our story to someone who has undergone death and has then come back to life.

The scene comes after Dr. Pincus’ associate tells him that one day he should understand that the world doesn’t revolve around him and that he needs to actually listen to other people and help them from time to time. It sounds a bit corny, but it comes across in a subtle way and when Pincus finally understands that message, he becomes a new man, so to speak.

Dr. Pincus goes to the ghosts and listens to their stories. All the ghosts have requests for him; some are simple like the father who needs to tell his son where he lost his stuffed animal, while other are more dramatic, like the construction workers who die because of a mechanical problem on their truck. They know why they died, but their foreman thinks he was careless and caused their deaths. They can’t tell him, so Dr. Pincus must relieve this man of his overwhelming guilt.

The scene that follows is really quite special, told without words with only a quiet, bittersweet theme performed by violin and piano as Pincus goes to the people whose lives were touched by these ghosts before they died. As the doctor clears things up with the living, we see the ghosts’ reactions for a second just before the screen turns to white, signifying their departure to their afterlife. It’s a very moving scene and it’s one that has a touch of Frank Capra to it. Like one of the great scenes from Capra's best works such as Meet John Doe or Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, this scene does share a common message of humanity – all of us need to show our fellow man a little more understanding. It’s this decency that made Capra’s films ring true and it’s this same feeling that makes this scene so wonderful.

It’s this message that makes Ghost Town an above average comedy. The film ends with a cute line about Dr. Pincus being able to help Gwen with a minor problem (or is it a major one?), but it’s a line that fits perfectly and has a sentiment that has been earned. How nice that writer/director David Koepp fashioned a modern-day comedy that isn’t afraid to deal with our deepest emotions about our fellow man.

The Warner Brothers Story

The first time I saw Richard Schickel on television talking about the movies, he struck me as a bit of a curmudgeon. The fact that I disagreed with him didn’t win me over to his side either.

That was a long time ago and I learned soon afterwards that Schickel was not a cranky analyst, but one of the most astute observers of film in America. He’s written books about several filmmakers, from D.W. Griffith to Elia Kazan to Clint Eastwood and directed the wonderful television series The Men Who Made The Movies (1973) among other works. He recently directed the PBS series You Must Remember This (2008), a history of the Warner Brothers studio.

A book of the same title was released in conjunction with the series and it’s a dazzling project. It’s part coffee table book – although you’d need a pretty big coffee table to hold it – part historical documentary treatment and part a look at what this studio’s message was and continues to be. If you’re simply looking for a pictorial look at 85 years of classic movies, this is for you, but it also is meant for serious students of Hollywood’s past and present as well.

Schickel along with his collaborator, British writier George Perry (most of the essays in the book are credited to Schickel) combine to present a wonderful social history of the studio’s work, especially in the 1930s and ’40s. Schickel makes the point that Warner movies of the ‘30s were as tough as the times in the country, stuck in the midst of a major financial depression. By the time World War ll came, the message of the films was tougher, as though the studio was preparing their audiences for the troubles across the sea. His analysis of 1941’s Sergeant York, as a film that depicted an unassuming American hero, as a moral equivalent for the country’s behavior in the face of danger, is well espoused.

Throughout the book, there are timelines of what happened at the Warners lot – and throughout America and the world – in each year the studio has been in business (since 1923). There are dozens of remarkable photos (I love the one of Errol Flynn being fitted for a costume in a cramped office) and reproductions of gorgeous one sheet posters for various films. Biographies of the major stars, such as Bogart, Cagney and Davis share space with those of lesser celebrated actors such as Leslie Howard along with craftsmen such as director Michael Curtiz (he of Casablanca and Yankee Doodle Dandy fame), Busby Berkeley and composer Erich Wolfgang Korngold.

Schickel also deals with the social consciousness of the Warner executives (he points out how this was the “New Deal Studio”) and gives examples of some of their projects that address social ills. Films such as The Life of Emile Zola and Black Legion (a 1937 work about bigotry starring Humphrey Bogart) were powerful attacks on fascism. Schickel also details 1943’s Mission to Moscow, the studio’s attempt at pleasing the Soviet Union, a country that had become a major war ally. Serious at the time of release, Schickel remarks how ridiculous the film looks today, labeling it, “the most blatant piece of pro-Stalinist propoganda ever offered by the American mass media.”

From the early success of the Rin Tin Tin series to the recent triumphs of such works as Million Dollar Baby and The Departed, this book covers most of the studio's most famous films. Many things have changed over the past 85 years at the Warner Studio, but above all, Schickel would argue, the individuals in charge of production always made films that were earnest and at the same time entertaining.

You Must Remember This: The Warner Brothers Story by Richard Schickel and George Perry, Running Press, $50

Underrated - "The Sea Wolf"

During its heyday in the 1930s and ‘40s, the Warner Brothers studio was known for its edgy criminal films and serious melodramas. The Maltese Falcon (1941), Casablanca (1942) and Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948) are its most famous films from this timeframe, but there were dozens of other beautifully crafted works as well including The Roaring Twenties (1939), High Sierra (1941), They Died With Their Boots On (1941) and Now, Voyager (1942).

A wonderful film that has remained under the radar is The Sea Wolf (1941), directed by Michael Curtiz. Born in Hungary, he would enjoy his greatest triumphs at Warner Brothers with an impressive lineup of films he directed from the Errol Flynn swashbucklers such as Captain Blood (1935), The Charge of the Light Brigade (1936) and The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) to his best-known works such as Casablanca and Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942). Curtiz’s finest films were full of energy featuring memorable characters; The Sea Wolf is a prime example.

Based on Jack London’s 1904 novel, The Sea Wolf is a tale of Captain Wolf Larsen, an intense sea captain who is a walking set of contradictions. Tyrannical in his treatment of his crew and other human beings, he is also a reflective, educated individual who has read the works of Darwin and Milton. Larsen is proud of what he has accomplished, at one point recalling his accomplishments from an early age, rising from cabin boy to captain of his own ship. Given this power, he acts as he sees fit; when the legalities of his decisions are questioned by a new crew member Larsen tells him, “I’m obeying the law, the law of the sea.”

One of the film’s many assets is the quality work of the actors, none more so that Edward G. Robinson as Larsen. Robinson, who could chew up the scenery on occasion, reins it in here, as he gives the captain the necessary rough edges while at the same time dealing with matters onboard in a even-handed, if slightly harsh fashion. He can be quiet and reasonable at one moment and then cruel and childish the next, as in the scene where he asks the crew to refrain from making fun of the ship’s alcoholic doctor (Gene Lockhart, in a touching performance) and then immediately kicks him down a flight of steps. It is one of several moments that sums up Larsen’s complexities and it is handled with great assurance by Robinson. For me, this is arguably his best screen performance.

John Garfield has a small part as a con that joins the crew of the ship (named Ghost) to hide from the law. His character is a bit of a screen stereoptype – tough on the exterior, yet revealing his tenderness underneath – but Garfield manages to flesh out his character of George Leach quite nicely. Garfield, who would go on to bigger and better things, has a lot of charisma on display in this small role.

Ida Lupino is fine as another con on the run who is picked up at sea along with the writer Van Weyden. Lupino’s part is also small and she brings what she can to it. Alexander Knox, portraying Van Weyden, is thoughtful and quite serious. His best scene is one between Larsen and himself as he tells the captain the description of him for his next book. Knox’s character is nicely written, as he is a fish out of water and we as the audience can identify with his struggle to maintain his dignity amidst the rowdiness of the ship.

A pleasant surprise is Barry Fitzgerald, who seemed to show up in about one-third of the melodramas of the time. For me, Fitzgerald was too one-dimensional in many of his performances, relying on his thick Irish broque to lend emotion to his character, but here, he adopts a low-key approach and delivers an excellent performance. His character is quite mean-spirited (a bit of an alter-ego of the captain) and Fitzgerald is appropriately menacing with a devlish laugh. His scene with Van Weyden, when he reads the writer’s quotes about Larsen, is one of his best in the film.

The screenplay by Robert Rossen is first-rate and definitely one of the best of the many strengths of the film. Rossen would go on to be an excellent director later in his career with films such as All the King’s Men and The Hustler, but he was first and foremost an outstanding writer, having penned the screenplays for such Warners films as The Roaring Twenties , Blues in the Night (1941) and Edge of Darkness (1943).

His writing here is tough and to the point. Characters such as Larsen are allowed to dream for a while but those moments are brief, as the harsh reality of his existence returns. There are so many good lines here, as when Larsen tells the drunken doctor, “Sit down until you finish drinking your supper” or when Larsen tells Van Weyden, “I’ll choose my death as I chose my life. I did everything by myself.”

One of the best-written scenes takes place when Larsen enters his quarters and discovers Van Weyden reading his copy of “Paradise Lost.” This is a crucial scene, as we discover the conflicting nature of Larsen, as a man who loves reading classic works – if only to prove his intelligence to others – yet wonders if the insight gained from understanding these writings have made this endeavor worthwhile.

At one point in the scene, Larsen tells Van Weyden that he (Van Weyden) is fortunate as he has a family that loves him and would support him if times ever were bad:


LARSEN
You wouldn’t have to struggle for a living. You wouldn’t have to live in a world where your hand was turned against every man’s and every man’s against yours, even your own brother’s.

VAN WEYDEN
You seem to find it necessary to justify yourself, don’t you Captain Larsen?

LARSEN
My strength justifies me, Mr. Van Weyden. The fact that I can kill you or let you live as I choose. The fact that I control the destinies of all onboard the ship, the fact that it’s my will and my will alone that rules here. That’s justification enough.


That’s great screenwriting!


Much credit also belongs to other contributors to the film, including Sol Polito’s cinematography and Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s score. Polito, who could always be counted on to create the proper mood for a melodrama, as he did in dozens of films from I Am a Fugitive From a Chain Gang (1932) or Now, Voyager (1942), does so again here, as he uses shadows and fog to great effect. Light is at a minumum here, not only in the belly of the ship, but everywhere on board.

Korngold’s score is appropriately somber, although he does include a haunting love theme for the characters portrayed by Garfield and Lupino. Unlike some composers at the time who would write wall-to-wall scores, Korngold kept the music in the background for most of this film. This was one of the more subdued scores for the man who contributed brilliant music to other Warners films such as 1942’s Kings Row (one of the greatest film scores of all time, in my opinion), Juarez (1939) and The Adventures of Robin Hood.

Regarding Curtiz, he directs the film with a steady hand, using many closeups, which help heighten the underlying message of power and class. His direction is at times claustrophobic, a wise choice for scenes aboard a ragtag ship, but he also creates space at certain moments, as in the scene with the blood transfusion; as Curtiz films this, he lets each character – Larsen, Leach and the ship’s doctor – have his moment.

Warner Brothers, like other movie companies during the height of the studio system, made hundreds of solid films like The Sea Wolf. Other films may have won more awards, but honest, well-crafted, entertaining projects such as this deserve to be remembered just as much.


A final note: Apparently Jack Warner wanted to change the title of The Sea Wolf, as he felt it was too similar to his studio's film of the previous year, The Sea Hawk (also directed by Curtiz). Producer Henry Blanke resisted and London's title was retained.